


Catch you later

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awkward Sam, Chases, Cheeky Dean, Double Entendre, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Fun, Impala Sex, Light Bondage, Mild S&M, Oral Sex, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Sex, Sexual Content, Teasing, Vaginal Fingering, slight exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 18:42:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5015893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine it’s Dean who starts the chase.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from my tumblr account.

“Aaaaw, we’re out of honey,” you moan. “Dean, lick my toast for me?”

“Sure thing,” he says and leans in, tongue out, yaaalaaa-ing over your plate.

“That’s too gross!” Sam comments.

“Rub this one on your cheek Sam,” you hold a piece up to his face, winking, “anything sweet will do.”

“Knock it off!” he smacks your hand away, “What’s wrong with peanut butter?”

Dean sat up, grinning at his brother, saying “Ugh, where do you keep that?”

Sam stands and starts undoing his jeans, apparently changing his tune.

“Mercy!” you cry, “Dry toast, _dry toast!!”_

“Aaaw,” Sam moans, “but that’s the _good_ shit.”

“You present as so classy,” you mutter to yourself, but you grin at Dean across the table as you bite into your toast. He smiles at you, chewing his own and smacking the jelly down in front of you.

“Alright,” Sam breathes, “got shit to do,” and pushes himself out of his seat before sorting his dishes and heading out of the kitchen.

You and Dean munch in silence for a bit, your mind lost on how you’ll spend the day.

“This has been nice, this break,” Dean comments around his food.

“Yeah, a job wouldn’t go astray though. Anything to avoid laundry… Which piece did you lick?” You thought one felt rather soggy.

“Both.”

“Yay. Jelly-Dean flavoured.”

“Hmm, nutritious,” he nods. “…So how long you been here now?”

“Three months, two weeks, 4 days aaand,” you squint to think, “eighteen hours.”

“Really?!” he seems kinda chuffed.

 _“I don’t know,”_ you shrug, “is it still winter?”

“You cheeky shit” he laughs.

“I do know how much you love my cheeks,” you add, brushing crumbs off your hands. You look up at him and he’s leaning in, like he’s about to say something, so you rest your elbows on the table.

But he takes a while, and your smile breaks through again under the silence.

“It’s been really good having you here,” he says.

“Thanks,” you look down, not quite sassy enough to cover the shy, but you hold your smile.

You hear him draw a breath, apparently starting a new thought: “You ever feel like life is just too short?”

“Uh huh-huh,” you look at him, a little unsure of what this conversation is, “well, yours are maybe.”

He peers at you, the eye contact making your skin prickle, and you can’t help but be silly again: “Too soon?”

“Always. But Y/N,” he sighs, “even you must wonder where the time goes every now and then.”

You try to be serious, if only out of politeness, but you find it hard outside of research and hunts to keep things straight. They’re both just so damn handsome and dreamy, it takes demons and ghosts to keep you sober. Dean’s voice, it’s rumbling nearness is so electrifying, makes your eyes glaze over, not to mention the sheer form of him… only the threat of death can focus you.

So making platonic eye contact, even to mask your attraction or to be polite, is hard. But you try now like it’s the biggest gift you can give, and clear your throat to prove it. “Yeah,” you nod, “sometimes. But we’re busy. I mean, my time’s well spent.”

“But what about you?” he wonders. “When do you fit in your fun?”

“Ooooh,” your brain slides, joking again, “I use the other _other_ nights to play-”

“Y/N,” he levelled a gaze at you, “let me explain- no, there’s too much- lemme a-sum up. I think you…”

You looked at him, almost scared, but unable to interrupt.

“Yoooou…” he points at you, leaning over, chewing his teeth like you’ve tricked him somehow, and gives in, “ah, Y/N, you’re hot as fuck.”

You twitch, squinting… “Come again?”

“You’re hot!” he throws his hands up and straightens in his chair. “You’re awesome at your job, whip smart, sassy as all hell and you’re just so-“

“Dean, I dunno that I can listen to this-“

“Don’t you think you’re hot?” he seems genuinely surprised.

“I- …I d- …Y-“ your jaw flaps as you gesture at the table, and before you can pass out from lack of exhalation, you puff “I really don’t have to answer that,” and settle on a frown.

“Tell you what, Y/N,” he drawls, his tone low and gravelly enough to make you breathe tightly, this whole conversation beginning to fray you, “I find the combination that you are downright sexy. You have no idea, and it’s adorable, but you just… you just make me want to… enjoy… things.”

“That’s lovely,” you reply. You’re finding it hard to function.

“Would you,” he begins, only a little hesitant, “would you consider enjoying things… with me?”

You swallow, and think, feeling the concern in your forehead before you can even conceptualise what he might be suggesting. “Aren’t you worried about the three of us-“

“Life’s too short, Y/N.”

“Yeah…” you sigh, thinking to yourself, slowly grasping the edges of his idea, thoroughly distracted by his sly smile. “It would be good to fit more in…”

Dean stands, surprising you, and before you can get your bearings again he’s behind you and leaning and caging you between him and the table top, his jaw brushing the hair by your ear. You can’t think to move.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, then breathes through his nose and moment before promising “I’m gunna kiss you-“

“What-?“

“-but not right now.”

 _“What?”_ you blab, already turning as he pushes away to head out of the kitchen. “What do you mean?”

He briefly turns in the doorway, enough for you to see his cocky smile softened with affection, saying “Catch you later, Y/N.”

 _“What?!”_ you squawk. _“Dean?!”_ but he’s gone and walking down the hall, leaving you to simmer and pop. “You little shit!” you called out. Then you can’t hear anything at all.

And there you are. Alone with your thoughts. The memory of his closeness still tingling your ear, your brain trying to gather his words and make sure they’re really in the sequence you thought you heard…


	2. Chapter 2

After breakfast, by default, you take yourself to your room and busy yourself with folding things you never usually fold, tidy things that aren’t messy, your vision constantly full of Dean leaning forward and saying something about you being smart and attractive. There might have been more but smart and attractive is pretty good and you decide it was nice of him to say those things.

Your mindless activity eventually migrates to the bathroom, scratching at spots with your fingernails since you haven’t thought to get actual cleaning products. You find yourself buffing the mirror with some freaking toilet paper and at some point you’re staring at your reflection. No matter what you think of your view, it seems Dean might have a different perspective, which is a complete surprise.

He flirted with you, which isn’t _that_ uncommon, but it’s usually when Sam’s around…

And he said he was going to kiss you.

That…

Well, that is indubitably a fact.  He said that.  _So you’d better get your vertebra in a row and figure out how you’re not going to go to water for the rest of the day_ , you think at yourself. _You better not fucking hide._

It’s been an hour already, so you get out there, in a low panic, before Sam comes asking after you or, worse still, Dean catches you alone and you’re just not ready to… _handle_ that. You shake your head at how you’re fine with all things deadly, but this has you under the blankets.

Scurrying through the corridors, a sort of fleeting image of mortifying regret flashes through your mind. It’s a kind of foresight of what it would feel like to drop this ball. You don’t develop a complete thought in reply but you do slow your scurry to a power walk and shake it out a little. “He likes me, he likes me, he likes me,” you whisper to yourself, “he likes me just fine.”

“Hey,” Sam greets as you step into the library, “I was about to come get you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, thought you’d like this,” he says, swinging a book around on the polished tabletop. You lean over the pages, frowning to focus. “Yeah. Yyyeah, looks interesting,” you nod.

“It’s this bit,” he points well below where you’re reading, “about the Russian dragon scales.”

“Oh yeah!” you see it and actually read the words, instantly engrossed.

“I know how you like obscure ingredients,” he smiles.

“Yeah, that’s cool,” you grin. “Thanks!”

“What’s cool?” Dean calls, crossing the room.

You sit down, opposite Sam, mainly to occupy – shelter? – your body from Dean. But he slides the book around to face you, and leans on the back of your chair and the table to read over your shoulder.

“Which bit?” he asks.

The bastard even places it about three feet away so you have to reach and he has to bend. “This part,” you answer, waving over the paragraph at the bottom.

He leans and reads, his belly resting against your shoulder – _Coz you are so interested in this particular topic and since when were you such a slow reader you sneaky son-of-a_ – and then he points at something at the top of the page saying to Sam “This bit is interesting,” forcing you to tilt your head against his chest as he reaches. He smells so good and feels so warm it’s hard to keep your eyes open.

“Yeah, I guess,” Sam shrugs, going back to his own text.

“Cool,” Dean says and straightens up, “who wants coffee?”

“Yup,” Sam answers.

“Sure,” you add absently, even though he’s nearly gone already. You sit and let Sam drag the book away as you try to formulate a plan to occupy yourself in a convincing way.

You take too long. Dean returns with a small tray of three coffees and sits next to you as he passes them around. He locks your eye contact, his mind clearly on the game, and your train of thought completely derails. _This is going to kill me_ , you think. _Life **will** be too short._

You blow on your coffee and glance at him from under your eyebrows. He leans back in his chair and smiles benignly.

Clearing your throat, you stand and head for the shelves behind Sam, feeling Dean watch you the whole time. You run your finger over the titles, willing one of them to prompt a need or remind you of the current case - _**anything**_ \- but nothing comes, so you pull out a spells book, coz, you know, dragon scales or somethin’, and suddenly Dean is there, on your right, carefully taking your mug and placing it on the shelf.

“Whatcha got there?” he asks.

“Just, you know,” you cover, “wondering how else that thing Sam showed us could be used.”

“This one might be good,” he says and reaches above and over you. You unconsciously turn towards him to give room, his aftershave and warmth dropping over your body, the view all collar and shoulder curves, then plaid and buttons. His hand comes up to the back of your arm, and you watch his stubble, neck and jaw line, him exhaling smoothly has he comes back to his regular height.

“This one,” he murmurs, “that’s got some interesting recipes.”

You swallow and blink, taking the text. “You keep putting your boobs in my face I’m gonna have to talk to HR.” He huffs a laugh at you and your eyes only make it up to his chin and mouth.

“Dean, man,” Sam scolds quietly, “you forgot sugar.” He stands and heads back to the kitchen.

Dean holds his ground and you watch Sam disappear. You only tilt your head toward him a little; Dean’s face is so close it’s mostly in the peripheral above you and to your left. You watch his tongue drag his bottom lip back between his teeth, notice his arm muscles tense a moment, and wait to see if he’ll move. Sugar won’t take long. He watches you watch the door, the silence being strung out, and soon you can hear Sam coming back.

“Not yet,” you say quietly.

“Not yet,” he repeats, a dimple showing.

You break away and take the book back to the table, heart racing but your mind strangely paused. You sit beside Sam and carefully open the cover. Your mug appears beside you and Dean’s fingertips brush down the back of your arm as he leaves. You collect the coffee and sip. He made it just how you like.

* * *

 

You were experiencing a paradigm shift. Dean placing himself as an option for “romantic activities”, even if just for fun, shifted everything on its axis. While the work and the hunting didn’t feel different – they were always in the business part of your brain, and the brothers had always been otherwise distracting – how you saw yourself in the bunker was now different.

Previously they’d both been so out of reach, so astronomically unattainable, so _tall_ , that you’d instantly put any possibility of a hook up out of mind and resolved to aspire to life-long friendship. To be relaxed and wear your sweats, to take big bites and have seconds, to make gross jokes, to be as easy company for them as possible. You wanted Sam to turn up to his own kitchen un-showered if he liked. You wanted Dean to talk about his ‘endeavours’, no matter how much heartburn it gave you. (Hell, if they’d farted in front of you, it would’ve been the compliment that made you teary.) Because these were excellent men and becoming a good friend of theirs would be high praise indeed. You wouldn’t be fool enough to chuck that away out of self-pity.

But, apparently, whatever connection you’d set out to make, Dean had tapped into this particular frequency. You hoped he wasn’t just bored. Or, if he was, that you were robust enough to run with it in the aftermath. But then–

“What’d you find?”

“Hmwa?” you blurt.

“You’ve been reading that page for ages,” Sam gestures.

You think for a moment and suck in a deep breath. “I can’t remember,” you lie. “It’ll come back to me if it’s important.”

“Sorry, I broke your train of thought,” he says. “You want some food?”

“Yeah,” you say, leaning back, “cheers.”

Dean comes back into the library, almost following Sam into the kitchen, but swings himself toward the table again upon seeing you alone. You sigh a little and watch him approach. He stops behind a chair on the other side of the table, running his hand over its back.

“How’d you like the book?” he asks.

“ _This_ book?” You point at the one he’d given you. “It’s a bit flowery.”

“The artistry is superb,” he waffles, waving a hand grandly, “I’ve not seen it’s like elsewhere.”

You smile at his cheesy effort and he smiles back. “But I see things more beautiful,” he grins, and you start to frown at him, “every day.”

You smack your hands to your face, almost too hard, and groan. He laughs openly as you drag your knees up at the pain of it, slipping down into the chair. “Aaaaaw don’t ever do that again,” you muffle from behind your palms.

“Come on Y/N!” he laughs, “you must’ve had your fair share of pick-up lines.”

“I have no idea what my fair share is, Dean,” you said, unfolding yourself and sliding your hands to your cheeks, “but most of them have made me choke on stale pretzels. That was _terrible!”_

“What was terrible?” Sam asks, returning with corn chips and condiments.

You cover. “Dean was saying how jealous he is of your mane,” you reply, goading Dean. “Wishes he could run his hands through something like that each day.”

It was accidental. You hadn’t predicted how that phrase might turn out, but Dean’s eyes suddenly smoulder on you, some velvety thought settling on his mind, something he couldn’t say right now. Your toes curl so hard they crack.

It simmers down a little, back to conversation that bounces between making jokes and talking about possible jobs Dean had found. After a while you feel your muscles itch and decided to get out for a bit. Maybe some exercise will help calm you, help you figure things out. Then you briefly imagine Dean running up behind you in the forest, so you decided to keep your jog to yourself and leave the room simply saying “See you guys in a bit.”

Almost an hour later, you’re out of the shower and noticing a text on your phone.

Dean: I COULD run my hands through some gorgeous hair each day…

You sit on your bed and reply: Yes you could sweetie. You go ahead and grow that shit. Let it flow.

Within seconds your phone buzzes back: Lend me yours till I can get some shag going?

You stare at it… conjuring up something light and playful. But before you can answer it buzzes again.

Dean: you doing ok?

You: Yeah I’m fine. Why?

Dean: Just checking. Wasn’t sure you were still interested.

You breathe deeply, taken by the thoughtfulness, the check in. You decide to step back a bit and make sure, typing: “Catch you later”?

Dean: Yeah.

And then he says something that confirms how fecking brave this guy is, or, at least, how much braver than you: I’m still keen to catch you, but I’m waiting for you to run.

 _Ooooooooh_ , it dawns on you, and you feel like such a muppet. _I seeeee. He wants me to **play**._

You begin to plan your reply, something teasing and subtle, but out of nowhere Sam is knocking on your door saying “Hey, did you go for a jog?”

“Ga-yeah!” you jump all over and thank God your noise came out as a word. _How many times can he do this today?!_ “Yeah! Sorry did you want to come?”

“Sorry, I was just walking by. Next time?”

“Sure, I love lunging for 8km,” you grin. “I’ve got something else I want to check on, so I’ll be in the library in a bit.”

“No problem,” he says, already strolling down the hall.

You look down at the screen in your hand and decide to not text Dean back.

* * *

 

You really have been avoiding the laundry, and if you’re even hoping for a hug you have to wear cleaner clothes than these.

As soon as you’re down to skins you realise, of course, your ‘some people think this is sexy’ underwear is all that remains. You can’t even recall if they look any good but you chuck them on and figure if nothing’s bulging out then it’s good enough.

The only clean pants left are your skinny jeans, which you’ve only ever worn to pick up some fun or lure a baddie (roll up the cuffs roughly, coz you’re a bit short for them), and a rather snug singlet top that you classify as a ‘modesty singlet’ since it certainly doesn’t keep you warm.

Your outfit is already so different to what you usually wear. It seems to scream “Look at me! I’m dressed for a horny-man rodeo!” and you aren’t sure how comfortable you’ll be wearing this in the middle of the day. It seems strangely prescient that this – essentially your pick-up gear – was what remained on laundry day. You feel like fate is having a good giggle at your expense and comfort. _Well, if there was ever a time for this get-up…_

So, looking as hot as you’re ever likely to get without make-up, you head off to the laundry intending to check if any of your other ‘not too frumpy or damaged’ clothes don’t stink too hard, but you realise, mid dig, that the dryer is going. A quick check and you discover Dean’s clothes – specifically, his shirts – all fluffy and warm. You’d heard about women wearing their boyfriend’s clothes, which you thought would be handy and comfy, but you’d also heard that some guys like it. Like, _really_ like it. You weren’t clear on why, but as you put your own laundry in the washing machine you figure if Dean isn’t affected it should, at the least, stir him up pretty well.

Picking out a beige-black-and-red pattern you sling it on. It’s voluminous, but not quite a tartan muumuu. Rolling up the sleeves, you decide you can definitely pull it off. So to speak.

As you head back to the kitchen, a plan beginning to form, your mentality takes on more of a job-style. _I know him pretty well,_ you think, _I know what he’s asking for, just… go with my gut and see how well it works. That’s how I get the job done right?_

Sam’s in the kitchen, making an arvo snack, and you head straight for the baking gear. “You feel like some pie tonight Sam?”

“Sure, wouldn’t say no to that. You apologising to Dean or something?”

“No, why?” you ask, placing the board and bowls on the bench.

“I haven’t seen you spontaneously cook before,” he comments,” or wear that shirt before.” Now he’s curious.

“Ugh, I’m barrel scraping. Lost track of my laundry and it’s either this or pjs,” you shrug, collecting the apples. “Found Dean’s stuff when I was putting mine in to wash and figured he wouldn’t much care.”

Sam doesn’t reply, but in the corner of your vision you’re pretty sure his eyebrows are high. He picks up an apple and sighs, “Well, I’ll do these for you since it’s not Penance Pie.”

“You’re a star,” you say, beginning on the pastry. “You can have the biggest third.”

You work and chat and before long Sam’s washed his hands and you’ve got the rolling pin in hand. You spy Dean walking in, wearing a grey t-shirt and track pants, his pace slowing dramatically when he sees you there. You ignore him entirely as he sits at the table and watches you both. By now, Sam’s leaning against the bench with his arms crossed, sharing the conversation.

You roll out the base and find – _oh drat_ – this shirt is big enough to drag on the bench and get dusty. You brush off your hands while you talk to Sam, elaborating on some Djinn lore with much superiority, undo the bottom three buttons and tie the shirt tails in a knot at your waist. You go back to turning and checking the base’s size, brush a few strands of hair aside with the back of your hand, and generally do your best to look like you should be in red gingham, baking Thank-you-for-the-dawn-sex Pie in some southern morning sunbeam. But super casual like.

Dean rests his ankle on his knee, having swapped them several times already. He’s currently settled on dragging his palm up and down his thigh, his other fist pulsing occasionally. He keeps licking his lips and opening his mouth, like he’s about to interrupt or change things. Even as you direct your talk between him, Sam and the pastry, you’re pretty sure you can see him minutely shaking his head at you and smiling with his eyes.

And then you have a stroke of genius: You start an argument with Sam. You know djinn stories began in ancient Syria, but you start talking about The Canary Islands and how old their legend is yadda yadda and within about four sentences he’s standing, gesticulating and shaking his head but, importantly, _hanging around until you’re done._ Dean takes a deep breath, adjusts his legs again and settles in for a while longer.

So as you’re wiping down the counter – pie in and timer on – you’re nodding thoughtfully and furrowing your brow before chucking the towel in the sink, saying “Yeah… I s’pose you’re right.”

“What?” Sam asks, almost snapping his head off at your easy change. “You _suppose I’m right?”_

“Well… had to happen eventually,” you shrug. “Did you want to keep arguing?”

He scoffs and shifts to his other leg, hands on hips… “Am I being pranked?”

“I dunno Sam,” Dean chimes in, standing and crossing his arms, “Y/N’s not really one to play games.”

“See Sam? I’m a learner. Tell him Dean.”

“She’s a helluva learner.”

Dean’s eyes on you are… _Shit_ , you think, _I’m going to need some protection._

“Yeah, okay,” Sam shakes his head, exasperated, “you’re lucky you made pie.”

“Ooooh, even you could get over being right,” you tease, walking towards the door. You see Dean twitch a frown, obviously expecting you’d stay.

Sam follows you noting “You know what though, with you I’m right as often as you are… Anyway, I’m going to go get that jog I missed. See you guys at dinner.”

You and Sam are in the hallway now, Dean still in the kitchen. You begin to walk away from them both, saying “Are you saying that with Dean you’re usually right?”

“Yeah,” Sam laughs, “pretty much.”

But Dean doesn’t take the distraction. He just chuckles a little, and Sam walks in the other direction. By the time Dean’s turned back to you, you’re around the corner. But he thinks he hears you padding down the hall at double speed. He follows, and when you catch the echo of his bare feet speeding up on the concrete you pick up your pace and head for the garage.

As you get to the door, you can hear Dean in the corridor behind you, balls of his feet fast on the ground, both of you nearing full speed, and you’re biting your lip with adrenaline. You burst into the garage, clear the steps up, and run for cover amongst the shelves.

Turning left before the wall, you see him angle toward you and you cut across the room, just beyond his reach and you bend away just in case, exhilarated, trying to keep quiet. You hook around the nose of the Impala and up its side. He dashes back along its other side and you skid to a stop before reaching the tail light, Dean doing the same. You crouch opposite each other, the trunk between you, puffing and giddy, each with fingers on Baby, and laugh at each other to relieve the tension and match the fun. Dean’s grey t-shirt hangs off him as he leans forward, his track pants fallen an inch below his boxer band and his thigh muscles cutting a fine form through the thin fleece.

He licks his lower lip through the smile and you flinch to your right, but he matches you, and you think for a moment this is the most fun you’ve had in ever.


	3. Chapter 3

You dash away from the car, but it’s crowded between the shelves and Dean rounds the trunk and clears the distance in a few long strides before scrambling his hands over your arms, turning you and lifting you up to cover the last two feet to the painted wall. Noises bounce out of you both but he doesn’t back off. His whole body comes flush against yours, tilting his head down so your noses are side by side, your breath crashing into his as his chest rises and falls against yours.

Barely three breathes down, he slides a hand across your shirt and hooks a finger over the top button done up. “What the hell is this?” he asks, referring to his shirt on you. You can feel the rumble of his voice in your sternum.

“Ran out of clean clothes,” you try-to-not-puff. “It’s a bit big.”

He forces a breath out his nose and squeezes your arm.

“S’it look okay?” you ask.

“Mmm,” he says, or grunts. As he speaks, his lips brush against the corners of your mouth and he nudges your temple with his forehead. “Some guys take it as a sign of belonging.”

“Really? …D’you mind?”

“What I mind,” he starts, his breath beginning to calm, “is the way you tie it so I can see this,” – he wraps a hand on your waist, large and hot – “these damn curves,” – the other grabs your hip – “stuff I’ve only been able to guess about till today.”

Dean uses his nose to turn your head and drags his cheek to your ear. “You know what it’s taking for me to not haul you over my shoulder and get you to the nearest bed?”

You can’t believe you’re here already, with Dean talking like this, pressing you, as though this happened yesterday. _How long has he thought of doing this?_

“It’d be a fight,” you say, breath almost level, and he leans back to look at you. You gaze up and give him a look as grinding as any demon’s seen. “As if I’d let you haul me over your shoulder.” His irises practically disappear at the prospect of wrestling with you. “You should cut your losses Dean,” you advise and dare him: “You’ve caught me. What’s next?”

His breathing is now even and strong, jaw set. He slides himself down your body so that you’re eye to eye and slips a leg between yours. Using sheer friction he pushes you up the wall, the inches of difference in your heights now beneath you. You wrap your hands around his upper arms, then slide them up to his shoulders to support yourself. But really, he has you there, his legs, hips and waist securely pinning your weight.

“I gotcha,” he says, in reflexive comfort, and adds lowly, “according to that shirt.”

“Not yet,” you say. Then you realise you’re staring at each other and your mind is racing with thought: _Are you doing this? Are you really going to do this and change everything? Right now? Are you going to kiss me like you care or give me a peck and laugh it off? Come on fucker what’s next-_

“Y/N,” he whispers. You stop your mind and wait. “I wish I’d done this sooner.”

You have nothing to say, so wait more, your heart thumping hard enough to bounce him off you.

He kisses you.

For a few moments, things pause. It’s as though he means to go on, but his lips touch yours, the wetness behind them mingling with a slight nuzzle and then, after all of three seconds, he pulls back – a sweet snap – too soon, you think, and you whisper a _shit_ as you look at him. It was as good and fine a kiss as any textbook could present, but it felt _perfect._ The taste, the fit, the contact, everything.

His mouth has barely moved, his eyes so heavy you’re looking through his lashes. “Yeah,” he breathes, “Y/N…” He looks at your lips, no real plan of what to say, and you find your head reaching forward. He meets you and it happens again, just as it did, and both of you breathe in against it. You open your mouths for each other, sliding, and taste more, your breath escaping as you begin to shift and feel with your lips and tongues, almost synchronised, and it doesn’t relieve anything, doesn’t nearly satisfy your fast increasing appetites.

It’s sublime. The warm soft lips, how he kisses so completely, his mouth working in contrast to everything else hard and crushing, affection against desire, his tongue licking at you like you’re water for life. Dean breaks away, his breath building. You watch his eyebrows dip and his jaw pulse and you feel your back goosebump at his intensity.

“I’m gonna take all the time I can get with you.” He says it fiercely, seriously, and grabs the back of your head to hold you firmly, his chin pushing yours down as he opens his mouth, your mouth, to kiss you, tongue laving, his heavy hum rolling down your throat.

He rocks it into you, your heads nodding against each other, him pushing and reaching and tasting and if he hadn’t slipped a hand between you to cup your sex – an open moan of surprise punching from your chest – you would’ve been near tears in seconds. But he had you there, his pressure over your crotch, and you let go of his shoulders, threading your fingers up the back of his head and the other arm under his and up between his shoulder blades.

“Ohhh Y/N” he moans, and ducks to get at your neck, toothy kisses knocking your jawbone and grazing your throat, “what do you want?” He wraps his arms around you and you wrap your legs around him in a full hug. Unconsciously grinds himself upwards against your jeans and you gasp at the lurching of your nerves against him. The track pants don’t even feel _there._

He comes back to kiss you again, talking against your mouth. “Tell me what you want, baby. I can’t choose.”

“Oh, shit Dean,” you’re almost whining, “I can’t even think!”

He smiles against you, huffs a laugh, and kisses you more. You grab at him, pull him toward you, and ignore how his stubble is starting to make your chin raw. He nuzzles into the other side of your neck and you take the chance to ask “Didn’t you have a plan at all?”

“To be honest,” he muffles, “I wasn’t sure how far you’d be willing to go.” He comes up for air and eases away a little, slows down for a moment, a hand roaming around your waist. “I mean, I hoped…” he admits, his eyes fall over your chest, then slip into your cleavage, which he’s never really seen before. He fights to drag his gaze back up and continue. “I just didn’t want to assume-“

“I know,” you nod. “Me neither.”

He starts to look down again, his hands travelling under your ribs, letting you hinge off his waist with your legs and lean against the wall. You watch the shadow of his jaw and the smooth dunes of his chest. “You know,” you begin, “if this were a long-term relationship, we might take this part slow. Like, pace it out proportionate to how long we’d hope to be together, right?”

“Wait till the third date and all that?” he was looking at you, over your mouth and neck again, and running his fingers over what he saw as you spoke. It was distracting, but you wanted to keep on track.

“Yeah, and,” you swallowed, hoping you could pull this off tastefully. “As long as I’d like this to last, we’re hunters you know-”

“Yeah.”

“I could even be hit by a bus tomorrow-“

“Heaven forbid.”

“Agreed,” you nod, and stroke his cheek and jaw as you speak, “and I’d rather die happy, Dean.”

“Me too.”

“You deserve it,” you answer and pull him toward you.

“Okay, I’ll do my best baby,” he breathes and lands his lips against you again.

“Ugh, you won’t even need to try,” you say against him. “Do whatever you want.”

“Mmmm, Y/N I want to do some much with you,” he says and pulls back to look at you again, an earnest tilt in his eyebrows, “you have no idea.”

His fingers work through the buttons of your shirt and wrench open the knot. Looking down again, he pauses to see. He starts moving his hands but can’t keep you up and hold things steady and get a hold of things and look at- “Aw shit, come here,” he groans. He lets you land on the floor, takes your hand, marches towards Baby and opens the back door.

“You sure?” you ask, uncertain if you should feel complimented or worried.

“Oh yeah, Y/N,” he collects you around the waist and gets you against the empty doorframe. “Had you in my rear view too many times to not have thought of this.”

He’s around you again, his hands roaming up your back and ass with a freedom he couldn’t get before. And again, you struggle to keep your eyes open. “Wait,” you look up at him and place a hand on his chest. You check your face before you start to look scared. “Wait, Dean-“

“Yeah,” he says, hands stopping and stepping back, “sure, what?” His brow is concerned and open and he loosely wraps his fingers around your forearm in a kind gesture.

“What do you hope will happen tomorrow?” It seems, fling or not, you want to know what you’re getting into.

His mouth pulls sideways into a half smile. “Well,” he drawls, “I thought you could borrow some more of my clothes, just cos they’ll be so handy, and we could see how many times we can make Sam clear his throat in one day.”

You look at him, barely aware that your smile is growing and he’s already leaning toward you in response. “I think we can get him to leave the room,” you bet, and you fold yourself to sit back on the seat.

Dean ducks down so he can see you scootch back as he crawls in. “Before lunch,” he agrees, his knees already between your legs as you flick the shirt off your shoulders.

“Hey, no,” he scolds, “that’s _my_ shirt, _I_ take it off.”

So you leave the other shoulder on and lean back on your hands, trying to keep your smile from going serio _usly-you’re-really?-okay-okeydokey._

He plants his left hand past your waist, on the side still covered in plaid and toward the back of the seat, and drags one finger tip from the dip of your throat to the crest of your shoulder. You watch him look over you, again, and drink in the way he’s this kind of lover, someone who knows how reverence can be a such turn on, how adoring you is part of his foreplay.

He leans in and mouths the skin of your shoulder and drags aside the straps of your singlet and bra to get clear access. He moves down, licking and kissing at the soft flesh at the top of your breast, then pulls at the other straps and moves across your chest. You nuzzle against his head and smell his hair, kissing whatever you can reach and he moans into your skin. You’re about to bring your hand up to caress and get a handful of anything but he nudges against your breast so firmly you need both arms to hold yourself up.

His fingers tuck into the tops of your cups and pull them down, your breasts popping over the top. The words are muffled in softness as he moans “Aw hell Y/N, how did you hide these so well?”.

You plan to reply but he takes as much breast into his mouth as he can, his tongue pushing inwards and licking, flicking over your nipple so deeply you’re whole body twitches, noise bursting from your mouth. He glances up and smiles since all he can see is your chin now tilted to the roof.

He pulls your bra and singlet down to your waist, but the straps are still around your arms so you buckle your elbows against your body and drop to the seat. He keeps at your nipples, licking them hard, and you haven’t much choice but to look at the roof still, your hands grasping his elbows as you try to keep quiet.

He straightens himself, kissing your mouth, then at your neck again, breathy hums falling on you and you close your eyes to drink in the sensation of his weight and warmth.

You’re pulling on his t-shirt now, and as he kisses back to your lips you manage to gasp “My arms,” beginning to wrestle them free from the tight singlet, “I want my arms.”

“Nu-uh,” he pins them to you and locks your eyes with his. “I caught you; I get to keep you how I like.” Those crinkles appear and he tells you, low and firm, “Now, I’m going to get those jeans off you. Don’t go gettin’ slippy.” He pushes your elbows down to make his point.

“Little too late for that,” you mutter and he practically giggles into your belly, mid-kiss. You watch him wrangle off the tight denim, half expecting him to leave that around your thighs to have all your limbs somewhat bound. The idea of suggesting that later flashes across your mind.

He begins kissing up your legs and you can hear him giggling to himself. “When was the last time you shaved?!”

“What the fuck for?!” you cry, your head popping up. “You and your pissy quarter-square foot, every few days,” you grumble, Dean still laughing as he moves north, “don’t give me shit about my acre of pasture.”

“And very fine pasture it is,” he chuckled, nearing the crux of your legs, “I could graze all day.”

“Shit,” you breathe it out, trying to still yourself, but his nose is tipping the cotton inside your hip and your next breath in fills you to the edges, your fingers coming up to his ears.

“I want this,” he says, nudging your mound with his chin. “Can I have it?”

Yes.

 _Oh God yes. But…_ “I don’t- I can’t-“ you practically cough it out, “There’s no way, Dean, I can’t keep quiet. Sam-“

“Sam’s a big boy,” he soothes, “he’ll find somewhere to be.”

“Yeah,” you say absently caressing his hair. He leans his head into your hand and you run your thumb over his eyebrow. “There’s a condom in the back pocket of my jeans.”

“You don’t want me to-“

“Fuck yes,” you moan, thumping your head back on the leather, “I want that so hard, but you’re too far away.” You wrap your fingers around whatever skull you can grab, fingernails digging into his other arm, “Do that later. I _want_ to _have you_. Get up here.”

He’s gone so fast there’s wind over your legs. Then the sounds of fabric and plastic, the slip of skin on skin, a light grunt and breathing, and he’s back, fingers pulling your underpants. You’re twisting your leg out of the elastic so fast he doesn’t even bother getting it off the other. You hook your heel under his butt and thump him against you, grunts quickly swallowed with kissing.

He reaches down and slides his knuckles over your softness, then his fingertips are gingerly testing the waters, literally – “Shit, Y/N, you weren’t kidding,” – and you hum encouragements as he dips digits into your wetness, cradling his cock with the others to guide it in, and his thumb slips up to find your clitoris. He brushes it as he pushes into you, and you break the kiss with in open “Aah!”

You feel him smile again, which makes you smile too, then he slips his arm under your shoulder blade to wrap his fingers around the back of your head. You have a vague idea that he’s making noises but your ears aren’t working right now - the blood is busy elsewhere.

He cradles you as he moves the last inches, trying to muffle your moans, and soon he can reach no further inside. He pulls out some and slides back in, firmly and pressing, and groans at it, resting his forehead on your collar bone. A thankful beat passes – he really does take up a lot of room down there – and he begins kissing around your neck and up to your ear. “You feel so much better than I imagined,” and his tongue slips over the shell and to your hair line. “Can I make you come now?”

“Mmm, I wanna come with you,” you sigh.

“On the second time, yeah?”

You want and wish, but it’s never happened before. “I dunno, Dean-” you don’t know what you’re going to say, or plead, but he interrupts with “Let’s see what we can do,” and digs his teeth into the meat of your neck.

_Mother of crap._

Instantly he has your nub between his thumb and finger, lightly pinching and rolling and it’s practically your volume dial because you’ve lost all concern for Sam’s opinion. He pumps into you slow and steady while his fingers work double-time, and your voice is fast rising in pitch and pace.

“Uh! Dean! It’s too much!” you cry, arms pulling against those shoulder straps as you grab at him. He leans over to take a nipple, grazing it with his tongue, picking it up with his teeth and licking. You buck against him, and yell out at the heat and sudden fizzing sensation that bursts across your groin. He pulls out almost completely, getting his cock out of the way, and kisses around your breast as you come down some.

“Oh, shit, Dean,” you gasp, “you bastard.”

“Please forgive me,” he murmurs, nuzzling about your chest. Momentarily you realise he’s removing his shirt and disentangling your arms from the scrunched fabric and underwire at your waist. Then he’s kissing you with his hands in your hair and brushing your cheek. “Forgive me baby, I just had to see. That was fucking gorgeous.”

He slides in again and you inhale so deeply because he’s in your arms now and kissing you and he’s right where you wanted him: hot and smooth against you, inside you, with all the ripples and back and strength you can reach. He gets a steady pace going, a rolling wave from knees to ribs, and it’s different and delicious. “Oh fuck,” you plead, “uh, harder, please.”

He collects your knees and lifts them up, the tilt making it pitch perfect. “Ah!” you cry out, smacking your hand onto his back to grab at him, “That! Do that!”

“Mmmmf!” he moans against your skin and speeds up, and you can’t believe he’s hitting so much of you each time. From the drag of his tip to the heavy push of his base, the pleasure zaps across your pelvis on each stroke. You grab and pull and ache for it. You catch him watching you with distracted intensity, not staring but waiting, and you recognise he’s looking for a cue. You think you don’t care if you come again or not; he’s too damn good to have to wait.

You kiss him hard and hungrily, then under his jaw and under his ear, lick-nibbling and taking what you can between your teeth while you let him hear how good he feels. You want to give back some of that reverence now that you can feel him like you want. You hold him close and speak clearly in his ear, “Go baby.” He makes a short noise in his throat, like a protest. “Dean,” you say firmly, gripping his neck, “come.” Three beats later he’s shuddering an open moan by your ear, a noise so singularly erotic you’re clenching again and quivering around him on his last thrusts. Your orgasm doesn’t make you buck and cry like it did the first, but you almost bear down on it, letting it swell across you and pull him in. He moans an “Oh God” at the sensation of your body thrumming, and kisses your neck, open-mouthed and huffing as you both gasp great gulps of air. Even before your buzz has echoed away, he’s kissing you again, cupping your face to follow him as he slumps to your side against the back of the seat, nuzzling and puffing into your jaw.

You take your time and let him make the first move, or noise, whatever. You just stroke his arm and hair, where you can reach. He lays besides you, feet sticking out the still-open door, a hand resting on your breast. When you open your eyes you notice your leg in the air, pinned by his waist against the seat, panties hanging off your ankle.

He kisses your cheek. “Can we,” he says and clears his rusty throat, “Can we go back to my bed and sleep it off.”

“How are we going to get there? I’m near liquefied.”

“We could use the old creeper,” he suggests. “Just roll there.”

“Stairs,” you sigh. “And that old thing is hard, cold wood… Oh shit!” you try to sit up, but he’s dead weight on you. “What’s the time?! The pie!”

“Oh,” he considers it for a second, “ugh, Sam’ll get it.”

“He’ll eat the whole thing,” you warn.

“If he was back early enough to hear you or the timer, he’s earned it,” he nuzzles into your hair and makes no sign of getting up.

“Yeah, it’s probably a fair swap,” you admit.

When you peel yourselves off the leather, he’s playful again and grinning. He doesn’t let you put your jeans back on, or his shirt, so you steal his t-shirt and fling it onto one of the upper shelves.

And so as you walk back to his room you find reasons to touch each other, thanks to what you can see, and stir each other up again. You relax and have some happy because he’s _enjoying you_ , openly and honestly, just like he asked and it is lovely.

In Dean’s room, his phone buzzes with a message. Sam’s text reads: It is fair and just that I keep this pie.

He replies: Not fiar but def just.

You undo your bra from under your singlet and Dean gets down to his boxers. Under the covers you wrap yourselves in each other’s limbs and settle into slow deep breaths. “Tomorrow, I’m going to make one for him and one for us.”

“Hot and smart,” he mumbles and pulls you in tight. “We will need many, many pies.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t intend to do a part 4, but something from part 3 got me thinking….
> 
> So here’s tomorrow:

You wake up. In Dean’s room, just as he had suggested. Here you are, in the morning, on your side, blinking at his desk, a meaty weight over your limbs and waist, with slow and warm wind on your neck. You roll over and experience a morning breath you’d only ever gotten wafts of at breakfast . Before you can begin to store the image of his face in this light at this distance, he snorts and swallows, shoving his face unceremoniously under your head and squishing you against his body. He seems to think you’re still facing away because you’re being bananaed backwards.

You flap your spare forearm up and try to tap on his shoulder blade, that flank of muscle and serrated ribs.

“Dean,” you say softly. “Dean…”

He relaxes a little.

“Are you hungry?”

“Mmm?” he hums. You’re so close his voice vibrates your collarbone.

“I’m hungry,” you say a little louder and caress what you can reach. “Let’s go get some food.”

He sucks in a deep breath and straightens a little, your faces now side-by-side on the pillow. “Hmmm I could get that meal you denied me yesterday.”

You look at him till he opens his eyes, eyelashes untangling before you. “Are you seriously offering oral sex as breakfast?” you breathed.

“Most important meal of the day,” he sighed.

“Sure,” you nod. “Breakfast of champions.”

Then your tummy betrays you, growling loudly. Dean’s eyes pop a little and he pulls back to look down at your traitorous gut. “Fine, I’ll make it a snack later,” he grumps and smiles before kissing you, everything at the perfect temperature and softness.

“Mmm,” he hums into you, “how am I going to get out of bed again?”

“I don’t mind staying here,” you answer, “if you go get me some bacon and eggs.”

He rolled you over onto your back, smearing himself against you, and your belly growls again. “Okaaay,” he whines, breaking away, “okay, let’s go eat.”

“I don’t get why you’re angry,” you sigh, “you and my stomach are besties you know.”

“Hey,” Dean turns to you, holding up the plaid shirt you wore yesterday and his jeans, a grin on his face. “You think Sam’ll notice these?”

“I think it’ll make his eyes roll out of his skull,” you say, shaking your head, but he’s already giggling and you reluctantly smile back. He chucks them at you and you can’t help muttering “This feels a bit ridiculous. I only did it yesterday to stir you up.”

You pull it all on, watching Dean get into some track-pants and a t-shirt, and stand to finish the buttons and belt, then open your arms a bit to show him. You’ve tucked the flannel shirt into the ruffled waistband, just to accentuate its size on you, and the jeans are gathered at your waist over your curvy hips. “I feel like I’m larping a lumberjack .”

But Dean is already on you, his fingers in your pockets as he kisses you, then pulls you out the door and down the hall.

In the kitchen you sit on opposite sides of the table, toast and coffees before you. You’ve swapped all of three sentences about the day’s plans when Sam strides in, his black singlet and shorts clinging in spots, a fresh and glistening shine across his chest and neck.

“Hey,” he greets.

“Morning,” you say lightly. Dean nods and let his lips pull into a sideways smile as he looks at you trying to keep it straight coz if this doesn’t work you’re going to feel like a prize fool.

Sam fills a glass from the tap and turns to lean on the sink. He catches sight of your shirt again, his brows twitching downwards and he stops drinking to think. Dean can tell you’re acting casual and frowns at the newspaper before him.

Sam’s eyes travel down to your ill-fitting jeans, then back up to the shirt, and in your peripheral vision you could spot the exact moment he realises they’re Dean’s clothes, including the same shirt you wore yesterday: His eyebrows do that spread-and-drop of dry comprehension.

“What you got planned for today Sam?” you ask blithely.

He takes another sip of his water and adjusts his lean. “Probably some laundry,” he answers flatly.

Even though Dean had missed that chat yesterday, you still look at each other: It seems you had both underestimated Sam. Unmoving, you bite your lips between your teeth, dimpling your cheeks.

You take a deep breath, pucker your lips, and sigh “That sounds very responsible and grown-up of you.” You glance up at him and sip your coffee as calmly as you can. And in that moment, you realise you’re petrified of Sam’s reaction to this situation: what if he really doesn’t want you guys flaunting this before him.

Sam flexes his jaw and you try to catch if that face is glaring or just looking before you can’t bear to look anymore. He comes over to your side of the table and sits, elbows leaning, glass in his hands. Dean won’t look at you – _coward_ – and Sam watches you glare at his brother’s head.

“You okay?” Sam asks you, frowning in concern. “You sound a little hoarse.”

“No, I’m good. Got a good night’s sleep.”

“Yeah, you were _tired,_ I bet.”

“Yeah,” you agree, before you can tweak to what he might be saying. The slightest twinge of recognition glances over Dean’s mouth and you drop your head to the side a little, willing him to help you out. _Come on, Sunshine, this was your idea._

“Y/N?” Sam says, just as you’re taking a deep breath over your flimsy team-mate. You look at Sam again, eyebrows high in answer.

“I have this huge knot in my shoulder,” Sam explains, ever so earnestly. “D’you think you could work those magic hands on it for a bit?” As he speaks his eyebrows roll all the way back, pulling his face into a helpless smile as he makes the request.

You smile politely, almost disbelieving your luck, and blink twice. “You poor thing. Where is it?”

“Right here,” he groans, reaching over himself. Dean peeks up through his eyebrows.

“You know it’s better if I go at it from the front,” you say matter-of-factly.

“Uh-huh,” he mutters and you both move a leg to straddle the bench and face each other. He leans forward and you reach around with one arm, pushing the heel of your other hand into his chest. His shoulder is practically between your breasts and both of you rock as you work the muscle.

“You’re so wet,” you say, possibly too breathlessly. Dean’s head pops up straight now, both his hands flat on the table.

“Sorry, I can’t help it- ugh!” he grunts. “Oh, that’s so good.”

“Wow, yeah, that’s big,” you comment.

“Okay, fuck you both,” Dean announces, and flaps a finger at you. “We had a plan!”

“What plan?” you ask, rocking Sam towards you with your motions.

“We,” he tick-tocks his finger between you, “we’re meant to be working _together.”_

“Really?” you feign surprise and lean your head back to look at Dean past Sam’s nodding head. Sam starts wincing and making little noises as you rub.

“Ya,” Dean leans over, “together.”

You flatten your brow, and tsk at his point, looking back over Sam’s shoulder. “God Sam, you’re so tight,” you wonder aloud.

“Mm,” he answers. “I knew you could take it.”

“Knock it off!!” Dean cries.

You stop and look at him. “Allies, are we?”

Dean huffs out his nose, waiting. He waves a hand, his expression saying _Yeah, I thought so._

“Seems Sam’s got my back more than you do,” you mutter dryly and get back to relieving his brother.

“Uuuuuugh, Y/N,” Sam closes his eyes and drops his head on your shoulder, talking with the rhythm, “you certainly got mine.” Dean can hardly believe what he’s watching. “Yeah, that,” Sam gasps, “yeah… baby…”

Dean suddenly lunges across the table. Sam sees him first and bursts out of his seat, well out of arm’s reach, and Dean snatches your upper arm before you know to get any distance. Sam gets his drink out of the way as Dean takes hold of your other arm too, lifting you backwards onto the table top so you’re looking at him upside-down. He pins your there, his expression hard to read from this angle, but he’s pink and puffing.

“I feel much better,” Sam says, “Thanks Y/N” and he’s gone.

“Don’t think you’re done!” Dean yells at Sam as he escapes down the hall. He looks back down at you, your heart now racing as you shuttle between delight, nervousness and plain old shitting yourself.

“Well…” you say, your tight chest stunting your words. “We got him to leave the room.”

He hauls you back, your legs dragging over the table as he mutters “Come’ere” and lifts you to plant your feet on the ground. He presses his mouth and chin into the side of your head, squeezing your shoulders, his chest rising and falling against you. “You traitorous… fickle…”

“You abandoned me!” you cry. “He was winding me up and you were all ‘oooo-obituaries’-”

He squeezes you in his fingers. “That’s no excuse for switching sides.”

“I didn’t switch: I was on _my side_ , you weren’t.”

He turns you around, his grip no weaker, and you lose moments seeing his face a mixture of ravenous delight and heat. It shoots through you, from chest to groin, and thought is momentarily gone. Then he smiles. It’s _almost_ friendly and entirely thrilling.

He snatches a tight hold on your wrist, ducks under your arm and pulls you over his back as he bends to collect your knees. Before you can protest you’re over his shoulder and heading out the door.

“No! Goddam it!! Dean!” you yell and start to struggle, but he has you uncomfortably fixed over him.

You catch something about “get you both back” and realise he’s heading for his room.

“Dean,” you try again more calmly. Your breath bounces as he strides, “Honey, you forgot to finish your breakfast.”

“Got it covered,” is all he says.

“Dean?” you don’t even know what you’re working on here, but you slide your free hand off his hip and wrap your fingers around one butt cheek, the track pants no interruption to his form. It flexes and rounds under your palm, and you’re sure you can hear him huff a laugh at you.

In his room he puts you down beside his bed and immediately locks his lips on yours, hungrily kissing and eating at you. He wraps his hand around the back of your head and pins you to his body from the back of your waist. You don’t know where your hands are; all you can think of is his tongue possessing the space in your mouth, his splayed fingertips pressing into you and his forceful breath.

Dean stops abruptly and talks lowly in your ear. “Are you wet from rubbing those big shoulders?” he asks, his fingers unthreading the belt buckle and Houdini-ing the jeans undone. He slides his hands around your hips and the pants drop to the ground.

“Not those shoulders,” you manage. He tilts your head back, lets his grip slip into your hair, and lays his teeth on your throat to suck and lick. You try to keep quiet and not give away too much. Then he’s hooked four fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down enough for them to fall, and smearing his grip back and forth over your ass cheek, just like you did him, his fingers dipping into hot shadows as he goes back to your neck and jaw.

With his forearm, he gathers one leg and pins it to his side as he strokes his fingers along the curve of your ass, around where your thigh ends, and edges his movement towards your centre. He slows his attention on your neck, his teeth receding and lips and tongue leaving wetness on your jaw, laving at the marks he’s made. You notice you’re holding onto him by his t-shirt, the fabric pulled tight across his back between your fists.

You open your eyes to see Dean paused and looking at you softly.

Softly, you say “Shouldn’t we-“

He kisses you warmly and kindly and says “Is it too soon to talk about safety words?”

 _Shit and holy fuck_. “No, never too soon,” you say, cringing at how wrecked you sound already. “Could we-“

“How would you feel about your hands being tied?”

You can’t help it. You close your eyes and fight off the frown in your brow. Just the phrase – hands being tied – to hear him say it, lights you up. Your vulva buzzes, you’re sure you can feel nipples hardening under the soft cotton, and everywhere he’s touched so far screams to have him back.

“Mmm,” you answer, “I’ll probably cope.”

“You wet now Y/N?” he whispers and nudges you with his nose.

You look at him and distract yourself with his features. “I can’t believe you,” you say, and he lets your leg down before pulling you upright.

His fingers race through the buttons of his shirt on you as he scolds “You shouldn’a tried to get me jealous.”

“You were jealous of Sam?” you ask, the shirt being whipped off your shoulders and yanked off your arms.

Dean pulls it into his hands and finds the sleeve, unrolling the cuff to its full length and taking his time while he looks over your torso now bare. “You _tried,”_ he explains, “that’s the point. Hold your forearms behind you.”

He reaches around and wraps the narrow sleeve around your wrists, your hands now on either side of the fabric, forearms parallel with the ground, and he firmly knots them together. “What’s the safety word?” he asks smoothly.

“Laundry?” you offer.

“Good,” he nods, and his hand slips up your side to the curve of your breast. “Now-“

“Are you going to close the door?”

“No,” he smiles and runs his thumb lightly over a nipple. “No, I’m not.”

“What?”

“It’s Sam’s punishment too,” he says, and leans in to help your other breast into his mouth.

It’s distracting but you try to talk anyway. “Dean- ah! …Dean-“

He pulls at your waist and holds your head, tilting you backwards from the knees so you’re lying on the bed. “Yeah baby?” he asks calmly.

“That’s cruel and unusual, you know?”

“As opposed to flirting with my _brother_ to get me back? Oh God- look at this,” he moans. Your chest is tilted by your forearms beneath you. He runs his hands over you, slipping them under your waist, over the stretched curve there and down to the delicate dip in your hip. His fingertips glide up and ripple over your breast, tipping the dark peaks, lessons from yesterday clearly not forgotten. You feel your breath heighten as he kneels between your legs and drags light friction over your nipples, rolling them slightly, pinching them just to hear the reluctant hums bounce out of you.

“He can just leave, you know,” you say to the ceiling.

“I know,” he says as he plays you, “but he’ll have to go the long way around to get a change of clothes and use the shower.”

“Ugh, you’re an ah-shit!-asshole,” you wince and forget to fight, curling your back a little and pushing your breasts into his hands.

He smooths warm heat over your breasts, kneading and kissing between them as they’re nudged together. “Mmmm, I’m sure you’re going to hate every minute,” he says, and slides his hands down your belly, inside your hips and between your thighs. He kisses the tops of your legs and into the cushy skin, his stubble nudging and then settling over the soft lips of your core. The breath of his nose fans over you, tickling your hair, and then he hums deeply and firmly, watching your chest rise and fall in his horizon. “You taste as good as you smell, Y/N?”

You feel his arms move under your legs, his knuckles rubbing your hamstrings, then picking up your legs to them rest on his shoulders. _I can handle this,_ you think, but then his palms are in the back of your knees and he’s folding them back towards the bed either side of your chest. You feel things spread and separate and he blows cold air over you, just to let you know what’s exposed.

He rests his elbows on the bed and settles his chest against the edge of the mattress to get comfortable. The tip of his tongue hits the front of your entrance and he drags it up to your hood, and you cry out as he slides over your clitoris. “God, Y/N, I could drink this,” he says, lapping at your lips and making you pulse at everything he does, “so much sweetness.”

“Dean” you breathe, for no particular reason, and he begins in earnest. You start whispering a random cycle of words – shit, oh, God, Dean, fuck, uhGod, _mm,_ hu – as he circles your clit and nibbles at your inner lips, tracing the shapes with his tongue and nipping at your softness. His tongue runs a firm circle around your core then licks inside you, deeper and deeper, until his nose is tickling you and his chin is pushing, and your ratio of words to noises dropped sharply. When he shifts up again and plants his mouth over your open labia, sucking harshly, your head shoots up as you cry out, unable to mind your volume. “Oh God, _Dean!”_

He hums against you and continues without a break, his circles becoming tighter and firmer and you fleetingly notice your pleading voice bouncing around the room. You think he’s easing up on your legs but he changes his hold. Now he has the backs of your knees against the hand and elbow of one arm, pressing them against your chest. You feel his finger at your core and pant “No! Dean! Please, I can’t keep quiet with that!” with no idea how loud you already are.

His lips make a smacking sound as he pulls away and you ache for that feeling again. “Safety word, baby. And; I know, I can’t wait to hear you. You sound so good already,” he said, a digit firmly circling in the wetness. You prepare yourself, but nothing comes.

“You don’t think, maybe, Sam led you astray?” he asks.

“What?” you puff and swallow. “Waddyamean?”

“It was his idea, Y/N, for you to rub his back,” he reminds, and stops everything. “I mean, you thought he was throwing you a line, but maybe… maybe he’s a bad influence.”

Your breathing slows a little and you open your eyes, starting to understand. “You’re right,” you answer, smiling a little at how he’s twisted it all. “He led me astray.”

“That he did,” he agrees, “and now you can help me punish him.” He begins to move his finger again, deeper this time. Then it’s gone and you hear wetness in his mouth as he hums “Mm, so good, Y/N.”

“Fucking hell,” you breathe and find yourself winding up again, your joints protesting at the position but heightening the pleasure in contrast. “You asking me back to your side then? That what this is?”

“Yeah,” he says and you can hear him smiling. He slowly slides two fingers in a little and you moan freely, encouraging him. “Come for the dark side, Y/N.”

You groan “Oh my God–“ but he dives his fingers and his mouth latches on again, _“-Oh my GOD!”_

Dean pumps into you, adding a third finger for the thickness, his tongue circling tightly, lips lapping at you and you’re calling for him in a rhythm matching his fingers, “Ah, shit, Dean! Deean! _Please_ -fuck. UhGod! Please, please…” He starts to flick his tongue back and forth and you leave the words, throwing your head back and arching your body, your open throat narrating his efforts. You’re buzzing from belly to thigh, a sun-bright hum fast building. He presses against your pushing legs and tucks his fingers to steadily rub that little patch inside. Your jaw drops and you cry out, a brilliant wave of ecstasy bursting from under his gorgeous face - “ _aaaaAAAAAHaha!!_ …Ah, ah, Go-, uh, Dea-,” Your breaths are noisy as you thrum through it, your words unfinished, and you try to quieten as he eases your legs down, gently nuzzle-kissing below your sensitive clit and around your corners, his fingers now firmly massaging your hips.

He coaxes your hips off the bed and into his lap, sliding his arm under your back to hold you against him as he sits back on his feet. You rest your forehead against his neck as he undoes the sleeve from your wrists and rubs your shoulders, kissing your neck and collar.

“You’re as bad as each other,” you mumble.

He slips his hand under your jaw and holds you closely. “Neither of us is as good as you,” he counters.

“Ohm’god,” you groan, but slip your hand up to his cheek too and brush your thumb above the stubble line.

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” he says. You open your eyes and try not to choke on how lovingly he’s looking at you, your post-orgasm emotions surprising you. “You’re gorgeous, right now, but that…” he gave a minute shake of the head and kissed you, over and over, pulling you in and hugging. His hands slide over you, kneading and caressing, and you pull him against you. You push your swollen centre over his crotch, unconsciously grinding on his hardness and he groans and kisses harder.

“I’m going to leave a wet patch on your pants,” you say, pulling away a little.

“That was already there,” he says, his hold keeping you close.

You get your hands into his track pants and slide them down a little. When you lift yourself up a few inches, he kneels up enough to shimmy them down so you can get your fingers around his silky skin and tufty hair. His breath drops and shudders as you caress him. “You sure?” he checks.

You answer by reaching for the bedside table and fishing out a condom. You tear it open and gently roll it on saying “I might save making you scream for another day.”

“Mm, please,” he groans and you wonder if it’s a request or a plea.

He helps you raise yourself up and you slip him into you. It’s so satisfying to feel him fill you, his thick base pushing you open, and you rock your hips down with all your weight.

“Oh, good God,” he sighs, furrowing his brow, “you feel so hot.”

“I don’t need much,” you say, sliding your hand down his cheek and neck. “Please yourself babe.” You tug at the hem of his shirt and he pulls it off.

“No, sweetheart, I’m not gonna forget you.” He starts to kiss you again, tilting and rolling his hips, yours answering in kind.

“I don’t know how much I can take,” you assure, feeling everything woken up and torturously sensitive. “Consider it as having mercy on both of us.”

He doesn’t answer, just wraps his arms around you and rolls himself beneath you again. You’re rhythm is swaying you like a low surf and for a while you’re quiet and gentle with each other, caressing and kissing as you breathe, watching each other, tasting the salt and skin.

Dean takes hold of your hands and places them on his shoulders, under his arms. He grasps your hips and kneels up, putting you back on the bed and kissing. He holds your hips and pumps into you, the angle making you noisy again, Dean grunting at how good it feels.

“Come here,” you say, and show him you want to move across the bed. He follows you, crawling up and coming back to his place. You wrap your arms and legs around him and sigh into his ear “Uh, it’s perfect Dean, feels perfect. Just what I need.” You stroke his neck and pull on his body, dragging your fingers down his waist and over his ass.

“Me too, Y/N,” he puffs and kisses you, ramping up the pace and depth. Both of you begin to moan with it, but a corridor door opens and you hear a distant “What? Still?! _Assholes.”_ Out of what you assume is spite, Dean gives an extra firm thrust just to make you moan in surprise. You frown and lightly smack his ass, only getting laughter and kisses in reply. So you squeeze your floor muscles as Dean thrusts in again and grin when he gasps. “Ahshit! _Fuck_ Y/N,” he bursts and stills for a moment. He lifts his head and looks at you, that same look you saw in the kitchen and you realise you’re going to be a frozen duck every time you see it.

His hand slips under you, cradling your head as he did in the Impala. He kisses you firmly and you puff into each other, face to face, him sighing your name, you moaning in reply as he roughly thrusts into you. You wrap your legs tightly and dig your nails into his back as he fills you over and over. He soon comes, noisily - a sound much more generous than yesterday and just as exhilarating - and you’re able to hold off until he’s there. You sigh and relax, letting the warmth wash over you.

As his breathing winds down, he slides sideways and removes the condom, tying it off and tossing it towards the bin, then reaches over you for the blanket and drags it over your bodies, rolling you towards him in the process. He kisses your head and squashes you in his hug. You peck at his chest and ask “So, how does this discourage me from making you jealous, exactly?”

He takes so long to reply you start to think he’s nodded off already. “That wasn’t me jealous, sweetheart,” he answers. “That’s coz you were naughty.”

“Yeah well… If I’m naughty, you’re positively bad,” you consider. “Can’t wait to give you your lessons.”

“Me neither,” he chuckles. You squeeze each other again and before long you’re napping in each other arms, mid-morning, skin-to-skin, with the door open.


End file.
